


A.M.

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky reminisces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A.M.

It didn't last long, but maybe things like that never did. Maybe dreams couldn't.

The mornings were always the best. Weekend mornings, when all three of them had the day off. That didn't happen every week, of course, not with his and Hutch's crazy schedule. Probably fewer than a dozen times in all, but those few times were what he always remembered best, better than the monopoly games, better than the amusement park, even better than the nights before that made the mornings after so good. The mornings, with the early sun creeping through the blinds, and the warm flesh on both sides.

He was always in the middle. They didn't decide to sleep that way, it was more or less accidental, but it was right, because he was the focus. In all the porn he'd ever seen with two guys and one girl (not that there was much; didn't people have any imagination?) it was the girl in the middle, the girl who was the meat in the sandwich, the girl who seemed to be having most of the fun, or at least getting most of the attention. But it never worked that way with them. Oh sure, they switched around, traded places, made sure no one got left out. They had an informal rule for that (it was Hutch's idea – Starsky remembers it so clearly, lying there that first night, fucked out, sated, watching Hutch's head disappearing between Terry's thighs, Terry giggling, Hutch announcing in that awful fake German accent, "No vuhn sleeps till everyvuhn comes!"), but that was about the actual sex. When they went to sleep, it was Terry on his left, and Hutch – as always; that never changed, before or after – on his right.

So he'd wake up, in the middle, hard. In those days he was nearly always hard in the mornings, no matter how good he'd had it the night before. He was often the first one awake, and that was the best part, because he'd get to lie there in the dimness, yawning, drowsy, and watch them sleep and think how lucky he was that Terry understood that Hutch would always be there, sleeping on his right. How many women would understand a thing like that?

Watching them wasn't enough, of course. The warmth and the closeness and the smell of sex that still hung in the air made him want them, too – either of them, both of them – but it was early morning, with the whole empty day ahead, and he was too lazy to work hard at it. He'd turn toward Hutch, usually, because Hutch was a little easier to wake up, because he was familiar territory, because Terry would need a minute to put her diaphragm in, because Hutch probably had morning wood, too. Because Starsky loved Terry, but Hutch was the air he breathed.

You could do that, he'd discovered. You could love two people, and they could love you, and there didn't have to be jealousy there, or pain. It didn't have to be perfectly equal, though no doubt it would be great if it was. It was something that had to be balanced, treated delicately, but it could work. At least for a while.

He'd never know, of course, how long it could have gone on.

Hutch slept on his side, usually, facing away. That was convenient, made it easy for Starsky to spoon up behind him, mold himself to him, press his cock delightfully between Hutch's warmth and his own. Made it easy to reach around with his left hand and touch Hutch's erection, trace the veins, play gently with the foreskin, feel the cock grow heavy, hot from his teasing. Kiss the back of Hutch's neck, breathe softly on the wispy hair there, watch it ruffle. Hump him, just the tiniest bit at first, one leg slung across him, his smooth butt cradled against Starsky's crotch.

Sometimes Terry would wake then, disturbed by the movement, and he'd hear her yawn, and feel her eyes. She liked to just lie back sometimes and watch. She told him once that he and Hutch together were the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. Other times, she'd laugh a sleepy laugh and say "Wait for me," and she'd curl around him from behind, a leg over his hip, riding him sideways as he was riding Hutch, and he'd feel the soft brush of hair against his ass as he moved and her lips against his spine, and she'd whisper, "This is the perfect place to be, this is the best place in the world," but she was wrong. The middle was best, with her grinding wet, lazy circles against him in back, and Hutch slowly waking, his dick stiffening in Starsky's stroking hand, his back arching, his ass pressing backward, his sleepy murmur ("Don't stop, don't stop") that Starsky could feel in his chest.

They could all come that way, most of the time, from the friction, though sometimes Terry needed a little help from Starsky's tongue, or Hutch's fingers. Then they'd collapse, in a pile, panting, laughing, and Starsky would trade kisses with them both, Hutch's tongue pushing in hard and hot, Terry's soft, teasing, there and gone. There and gone.

It was the only time in his life he had everything, when both sides of his nature met in the middle. He refused, just flatly refused, to wonder how long such a miracle could last.

Even now, he'd rather not know. He thinks of it still, remembers it every year on Terry's birthday, when he sends money to her sister for a wreath. She's buried in Seattle, her home town, not in Bay City. Her parents lie on either side of her.

He's not in the middle anymore, hasn't been for more than thirty years now, but Hutch is still there, on his right. They're not what they used to be, that's for sure, and it takes them a little longer, but hell, that just means more time to savor it. He still wakes up to Hutch's sleepy warmth, still kisses him in the pale dawn light. They still make love in the mornings, with the early sun creeping through the blinds, and Hutch's soft hair against his face, and Hutch's drowsy whispers in his ear. Half-awake, completely in love.

It's still the best time of the day.


End file.
